


Mind Eraser

by benrumo



Series: Minific Requests [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, PWP, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benrumo/pseuds/benrumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time your roommate suggests sharin’ a little of the fine miracle, you immediately brush him off.</p><p>The seventh time, you honestly start to believe him when he says he forgot about all the previous times.</p><p>You are not sure what number of this times this makes. Frankly, you really couldn’t give a shit, because this time your head is literally tearing itself apart. Literally. You can feel it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Eraser

The first time your roommate suggests sharin’ a little of the fine miracle, you immediately brush him off.

The seventh time, you honestly start to believe him when he says he forgot about all the previous times.

You are not sure what number of this times this makes. Frankly, you really couldn’t give a shit, because this time your head is literally tearing itself apart. _Literally._ You can _feel_ it.

You should have known better than to open the door. Speaking to your roommate was always going to cause another disaster you aren’t currently equipped to handle. There was literally no other possible outcome to this scenario in the presumably infinite alternate timelines which all seem to wind back to this same event. But goddamn it, you could not stand another second of that ear-liquefying shit he calls music!

You should also have known exactly how your roommate would react to your bleary, squinted eyes and bared teeth. You don’t know whether to hate yourself or love him when you find yourself laying on the couch with your head in his lap and his fingers massaging your temples.

“That’s it, man. You just keep on breathin’ easy. That’s right.”

His voice is low and deep and gentle. More than anything, it’s calm. You are not calm. You are never calm. But you’re starting to think his calm might be infectious.

He takes a hand away from your head to take another long toke. He holds it so long you’ve honestly begun to wonder if he needs to breathe like the rest of you mere mortals.

He doesn’t notice you staring until he exhales. You are mesmerized by the patterns the smoke makes when he chuckles.

“Feeling better, brother?”

“No. Yeth.”

“Those wicked demons up in there still kickin’?”

You are not sure you have the requisite vitriol left in you to explain, yet again, that migraines are not caused by demons living in your brain. After a whopper like this, it almost seems a logical explanation.

“Not tho much kicking anymore,” you say, closing your eyes as they start to sting. “Maybe more like tap danthing? Thquare danthing. A rhythmic folk jig.”

You giggle at your own joke. It hurts, but you don’t care.

“You know, brother, one little puff on this motherfuckin’ fine shit I’ve got here would make all them little motherfuckers get their relax on.”

He reaches down to tweak the end of your nose.

“You included.”

“I am relathked.”

“Brother, you don’t even know what relaxed is.”

He sets the joint down and places a hand on either shoulder. Before you can even ask what he’s trying to accomplish, his fingers dig into your muscles.

“Can’t you feel all that motherfuckin’ tension?”

“Ow.”

You sit up, squirming away.

“OK, that hurt.”

“That’s because you ain’t relaxed. Not even one little bit relaxed.”

He coaxes you back, settling one leg on either side of you and pulling you so close you can feel the heat of him. Huge fingers splay across your back as thumbs work in gentle circles.

“I can help you with that.”

You make a noise that isn’t a yes or a no or even a proper response as his thumbs drive in just a little bit deeper.

After a few more moments under his magic fingers, you have to reluctantly agree. Even the demons have to agree, and they never agree to anything. Not the doctors and their stupid meds or your mom’s useless herbal remedies. You wonder what it is about your perpetually baked roommate that’s got them listening.

Gamzee doesn’t offer again. Not verbally. His left hand leaves your shoulder soon after you hear the endless sound of his exhale. A cloud forms over your head.

“Hey, GZ.”

“Yeah, brother?”

“Have you ever wondered why I’m 24 and thill haven’t graduated?”

“A brother’s gotta do things in his own motherfuckin’ time,” he replies serenely. “Ain’t no good that comes from rushing a thing.”

You’re thinking about molecular formulas. C14H19NO2. That one you know intimately. Fourteen carbons, nineteen hydrogens, a single nitrogen, and two oxygens. All these little atoms drawn together to form a molecule that costs you a year and a half of your life. Methylphenidate. Vitamin R.

And now you’re sitting on a couch breathing in traces of Tetrahydrocannabinol, C21H30O2\. You’re thinking of the small, small differences between them. Seven carbons, eleven hydrogens, and a single nitrogen. Of course you know how much change can be caused by a single electron, much less nineteen whole atoms. But looking at it here, from such a far, far distance, it all seems so small.

Ehehe. Atoms. Small.

“I uthed to be a Ritalin junky,” you admit, taking the joint from between his fingers. “Long thory thort, I overdothed and then thpent like three monthth bounthing between hothpitalth, mental wardth, and rehab. Then it wath another thithk monthth before anyone would let me tho much ath take a thit by myself, much leth go back to thchool.”

He stops his massage to wrap his arms around you. You feel his nose in your hair as he pulls you closer, and wonder if he’s getting his ridiculous juggalo makeup in your hair.

“Fuck. I thill am a Ritalin junky.”

You hold the joint at eyelevel, analyzing every facet of it.

“It ain’t the same,” he whispers into your neck.

“I know.”

Seven carbons, eleven hydrogens, and single nitrogen of difference.

You put the joint between your lips. You spare a second to think _It’s not too late to back out now_ before you breathe in.

Gamzee’s fingers brush yours as you pass it back to him.

“Indirect kith,” you joke once you’re done coughing.

You don’t hear him laugh, but you feel the rumble of it against your spine.

Warm skin brushes against your stomach, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s trying to take your shirt off. You protest until he reminds you, “I promised to help a brother relax, didn’t I?”

You give in and help him pull your shirt over your head. You don’t breathe until you feel his hands move back to your shoulders. You are not sure what else you were expecting.

His shoulder massage turns into a full-back massage. He leans your forward so he can have better access, and you comply without thought, leaning limp like a puppet.

“You have got the most beautiful motherfuckin’ skin.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You aren’t even sure you’re capable of speech anymore. You’ve lost count of how many tokes you took, but it couldn’t have been that many. Could it?

Lips press against your spine. His breath is burning against your skin. You imagine the patterns the smoke makes against the dark contrast of your flesh as he breathes against you.

“GZ…” you whisper so soft you aren’t sure he can here. You can’t decide if what comes next is “stop” or “keep going”.

“I promised, remember? I promised.”

He kisses every bare inch of your skin, and when he’s done with that he flips you on your back to kiss your lips. You feel the grease of his face paint when he brushes too close, and you laugh. Soon, you’re drawing tic-tac-toe boards across his chest as he paints your belly a motherfuckin’ face.

Soon after that, your second face and his x’s and o’s are smearing together as you move. He lifts your ass to pull your pants down to your knees as you unbuckle his belt.

He breathes smoke into your mouth with every kiss, and your demons fall silent.


End file.
